


smoke and mirrors

by verity



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, San Francisco, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1912...</p><p>Miss Allison Argent and her daemon Pascal have just returned to San Francisco from Europe. They're supposed to be restoring the Argent name, but the skeletons in the family closet won't stay hidden beneath the rubble of the Great Fire...</p><p>Mr. Derek Hale and his daemon Priska are caught up in the struggle for power in the city's supernatural underworld. If they want to avoid a confrontation with the city's hunters, they'll have to be careful indeed...</p><p>...<i>will the flame of their love set San Francisco on fire again?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. allison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



> I wrote the beginning of this fic at the crest of 2014. I wanted to put it up here and hopefully get motivated to finish it in 2015!
> 
> written in collaboration with the lovely daunt, cheered on by many, cover art by magneticwave.
> 
> content notes: canonical character death (Hales, Kate Argent), quality romance novel melodrama

  
cover by [magneticwave](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magneticwave)

[and check out MORE AMAZING ART from daunt here!](http://daunt.tumblr.com/post/106943189650/im-so-excited-to-share-these-and-also-excited)

The opera bag Allison is carrying is ivory silk with delicate floral beadwork to match her dress. She opens the clasp, fastens it, starts to undo it again. Lydia's hand closes over hers. "You're nervous," Lydia says. "That's good. You don't want to look too eager."

Allison was nobody in Paris; back on American soil, where her family controls the telegraph lines from Atlantic to Pacific shore, she's practically royalty. "I've seen _Rigoletto_ before," she says, dropping her free hand to Pascal's head. He's curled up in the footwell, half-smothered with the heavy skirt of her coat. 

They're beginning the descent from Pacific Heights into downtown, the splash of light visible from Allison's bedroom window resolving into buildings, streetlamps, people hurrying home at the end of the night that Allison's only just beginning. As Lydia's driver slowly glides them down the steep decline of the street, her daemon Lear swoops down to Lydia's shoulder and lets out a sharp cry.

Lydia keeps her gaze fixed on Allison. "You're not there to see Verdi."

Socialites, bachelors, investors: they'll all be at the opening night of the new Tivoli Opera House. There's only so much Father can do to repair the Argent name in the boardroom, even with Mother's help, so it's Allison's task to represent the family in society. Even under Lydia's tutelage, the prospect is daunting.

Pascal's voice is barely more than a growl. _Don't act like a child._

In front of the theater, the driver helps Lydia from the car, then Allison. Lydia's shoulders are nearly bare beneath her gauzy wrap, but Allison's burdened with an opera coat designed for a New York winter, not a San Francisco spring. At least all of the other ladies milling at the front of the theater seem to be suffering equally, swaddled in silk and fur. That makes it easy to pick out the other witch present: like Lydia, she's clad in black, though her dress is conservatively cut with a short train. She has warm brown skin and darker hair massed in a ornate style. "That's Marin Morrell," Lydia says, following Allison's gaze. "She and Jennifer Blake are the other witches in the city."

"Will you introduce me to them?" Allison says.

Lydia stops before a fresh-faced boy with a Brownie camera outside the door. "When I need to," she says. "Here, stand with me."

"Thank you, Witch Martin." The boy nods at Lydia, then flashes a smile at Allison: it's then she realizes that he must be near her age, just skinny and hardly grown into his long limbs. His daemon, a mongoose, darts toward Pascal and then away, unsure of her welcome. "I'm with the _Call_. You must be—"

"Miss Allison Argent," Lydia says curtly. "Tell Finstock to print that, if you please."

Inside, divested of her coat, Allison accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter and allows Lydia to draw her into the crowd, Pascal trailing behind them. Lear has gone to perch somewhere and watch; seeing them uncoupled always gives Allison a queer feeling. She's introduced to a parade of faces Lydia can't possibly expect her to remember: Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid, Senator Harris, Mrs. Talbot. Miss Yukimura in her kimono stands out with her bright face and quick smile, her fox daemon sprawled over her shoulders. "You'll have to call on me for tea, both of you," she says, glancing quickly at Lydia for confirmation.

Allison met Lydia when she barely came up to Lydia's knees, toddling in the parlor of the mansion on Nob Hill that burned. Lydia looks just the same today as she did when Allison was a child, her complexion as smooth and pale as porcelain, with glossy curls to rival Mary Pickford's. She's always dressed a season ahead, a fashion plate rendered in noir, and her dress tonight wafts over her slender form like the fog that rolls in off the sea, stormy and seductive.

They ascend the staircase leading to Lydia's box with ten minutes to spare before the curtain, Allison can't help but glance back down at the turn of the stair, take in the lobby still swollen with the crowd. One man catches her eye; he's in a precisely tailored suit of last year's cut, dark hair dipping low on his brow, and flanked by two women with the same sullen mouth. "Who are they?" Allison says when Lydia halts on the step above her. "You didn't introduce me to them."

"Those are the Hales, darling," Lydia says. "You hardly need an introduction."

* * *

Allison remembers the Hales, of course: Mrs. Hale took tea with Grandmother once a week. They were formal, reserved. Allison sometimes saw the Hale girls at the interminable teas that Mrs. Reyes in Russian Hill used to host for her sickly daughter Erica's benefit. Cora was their age, but small for it; Laura was closer to Aunt Kate's, but she still mingled with the children, sticking close to Cora. Allison attended Miss Paige's Lessons For Young Ladies, but the Hales had a private tutor. That was nothing unusual: so did the Whittemore boys next door, and the Hawaiian prince and princesses on the next block, the Mahealanis.

The Hale girls don't look so different—older, more elegant—but the boy has grown into his ears. Allison wouldn't have recognized him if she ran into him on the street. "I don't remember his name," she says to Lydia.

"Oh, that's Derek," Lydia says. "Our seats are waiting, Allison."

The opera house fills rapidly, the lowest levels standing room only; the whole city has turned out to see Luisa Tetrazzini, who sung the same role at old Tivoli when Allison was girl. Like the hotels that stud the hill where Allison's childhood home used to be, the new opera house is both a draw for the wealthy patrons of the city and a symbol of its rebirth, rising like a phoenix from the ashes. How appropriate that Deaton's chosen one for the new mascot, embodied in an ornate carving at the center of the elaborate arch that swoops over the stage like wings, the bird's talons crushing its ruptured, gilded egg.

Lydia being Lydia, their view from her box rivals the Mayor's. They're on the side opposite the Hales' box, situated closer to the wings; Allison keeps glancing their way, secure in the knowledge that their own opera glasses are trained, expectant, on the red stage curtains.

"You're so artless." Lydia sighs as she searches through her drawstring Dorothy bag for her glasses. "I can't decide whether it's tedious or endearing."

Allison sniffs, wavering between acknowledgment and denial. "I can be subtle," she says, settling on a middle path. "Is there something wrong with my interest?"

Lydia's eyebrows climb. "To _begin_ , it doesn't suit you to be so partisan. The people you're meeting are pieces on a bigger chessboard than you can imagine, and you're hardly informed enough to make a move. The Hales are not pawns. Start smaller."

The curtain begins to climb.

"Suggestions?" Allison says.

Lydia says, "Let's watch the show."

* * *

The opera is admirably performed, though not as lavishly staged as the productions Allison has seen in Paris and New York: _Tristan und Isolde_ , _Don Giovanni_ , _La Boheme_. Luisa Tetrazzini is a mature but talented performer, her voice rising majestically to the rafters. She earns a standing ovation from the eager crowd, though Lydia remains in her seat, unmoved. She rises only when the applause dies down, gathering up her purse and smoothing her skirts. "We don't have much time to catch Deaton and he's whom I brought you here to meet."

"We're not going mix after?" Allison says, but she follows suit, Pascal easing himself up from his repose at her side. "I thought—"

"You've been seen, and in my company," Lydia says. "Better to keep people curious."

Lydia leads them away from the central stair in the hall adjacent to the boxes, just as the rest of the audience begins to stir in their rooms. Allison catches a glimpse of one dark head—Miss Yukimura?—ducking into the hall, but she doesn't pause, just follows Lydia through a plain door and then down a dimly lit staircase. This must be passage for the opera staff; it's hardly intended for patrons. Pascal has to hold the train of Allison's gown by his teeth so the fine silk doesn't snag on the unfinished wood.

They pass one landing, then another, and another, finally stopping at the bottom of the stairs before another unmarked door. Lydia finally pauses, her hand on the knob. "Deaton prefers to limit his appearances," Lydia says. "He doesn't care much for attention, though he can play it; he is in the entertainment business, after all. However, he'll want to make _your_ acquaintance."

"I can't imagine why," Allison says. "I'm—"

Lydia shakes her head. "You know better than that, Allison."

* * *

Deaton's office, tucked away in the basement, is comfortably appointed but informal. He glances up from the papers on his desk when they enter, but he doesn't surprised to see them. "Witch Martin," he says, his rook fluttering from her rest atop a bookcase to perch on his shoulder. "Miss Argent. You're certainly making the rounds."

"Someone has to introduce her," Lydia says. She and Deaton an brief, inscrutable look; Pascal brushes his head against Allison's loose hand until she curves it beneath his jaw, cautioning him. "Is Scott still here?"

"I fear his presence was needed elsewhere," Deaton says. "Are you certain—so soon?"

Lydia glances at Allison. Sometimes Allison forgets, with her youthful appearance, how old Lydia is, how deliberate and powerful. "Victoria has sorely neglected her education, after—she thinks Allison is too delicate. Are you, Allison? I don't think so."

Allison straightens. "I don't know what you mean."

"Your father's still had you and Pascal training all this time," Lydia says. "Archery, marksmanship, the hunt—hardly typical of a young lady's education. Did you think that was for nothing?"

It's chilly, down here in the basement, a sharp change from the heat of the night or the crush of the packed opera house. Allison wraps her arms around her shoulders. "I don't know," she says again. "I thought— _why_ did you bring me here?"

Lydia's expression shifts, turns kinder. "To prepare you," she says. "Your family's made its name in more than one trade."


	2. derek

Stiles is the easiest to spot with his newsboy cap and boxy camera; it takes Derek a minute to pick out Malia and Heather in the crowd, tarted up in finery that even Derek can tell is borrowed. His breath hitches when he sees Isaac come around to the side of Lydia Martin's Packard; he glances away, back to where Laura and Cora are sweltering under their opera coats. That's all of them, then, except for Scott McCall himself.

 _Looking for trouble?_ Priska stirs on his shoulder and lifts her head, scanning the crowd. _Mella's here._

Witches can fly miles from their familiars, humans can manage a few yards, and weres fall somewhere in between. Derek and Priska are rarely more than few feet apart, but Laura's daemon Rafe patrols their entire block in Russian Hill every night. If Scott's daemon is present, he can't be far away.

"Inside?" Derek says under his breath, just as Laura gives them pointed look and nods at the entry. 

_He must be with Deaton,_ says Priska.

* * *

Alan Deaton disappeared on the first day of the fire, back when their greatest concern was still the earthquake; the fires were downtown, and the Hale mansion was high up on Nob Hill. Derek and Laura watched the Call Building burn from the second floor balcony before Uncle Peter and Mama returned home, grim and sooty. "Wherever Deaton is, it's not the Tivoli," Mama said to Papa when he came out front to meet them. "I want to wait, but Peter should take the children."

"I'm not a child." Derek cast an anxious glance at the shuttered home across from theirs. He hadn't seen Kate in days. "If Mama's staying—"

"Then you'll answer to me," Laura said, golden-eyed; Rafe bared his teeth and stared at Priska until she dropped her head and tucked her nose against Derek's neck.

On the second day, Nob Hill burned, and so did Mama and Papa, trapped in a ring of mountain ash.

* * *

A year later, Deaton surfaced none the worse for the wear; he booked touring companies at Sutro's Cliff House until he could finance a new Tivoli downtown. Derek sees him as soon as he sets foot in the lobby, which is splendid with gilded wood and plush carpeting. Deaton is standing next to his sister the witch, Miss Morrell, and beside them is Scott, engaged in deep conversation with Miss Yukimura the kitsune. This is the first time Derek's seen Scott since he became an alpha. Someone aside from Stiles has cut Scott's hair, his suit fits, and his cheeks are freshly shaved. 

"Stop staring." Cora taps him on the arm. Her daemon Audo hisses from his perch on her shoulder. "Don't be a bore." 

Laura and Rafe sidle up on Derek's other side. "You look like a jealous lover, brother," she says. "It's hardly flattering."

Across the room, Scott laughs. Either he hasn't noticed their arrival, or he's doing an excellent job of hiding it. Miss Yukimura smiles in response, a flush rising to her cheeks. Derek can't eavesdrop on their conversation, but Miss Yukimura's gaze betrays her as she steals a glance at Malia, resplendent in a gown that's too loose in the bust and too tight in the shoulders, the embroidered chiffon stretching tight across her back. As they talk, Scott's Mella casually grooms Miss Yukimura's Satoshi, who leapt from her shoulders for the privilege. They're all like this, the McCall pack and their allies, closer than kin: Scott and Stiles, Malia and Miss Yukimura, Isaac and Heather. Their daemons constantly tussle, nuzzle, embrace. 

Rafe nods to Erica's daemon Leopold as he and Erica approach, Admiral Boyd and his daemon Faith in tow. Laura leans forward for Erica to press a kiss to her cheek in the European style. "Alpha," she says softly, "I wasn't sure I'd see you here."

"I could hardly miss it," Laura says tersely. "You know how important it is, when we're introducing the bill next month."

Erica smiles. "Father's promised his support, of course."

There's a pause before Cora says, "So, you've set a date?"

"May 15th," Boyd says, giving a rare smile of his own. 

Laura raises her eyebrows. "The height of the season? That'll be a production."

Mayor Reyes and his wife are here, of course, but Derek tries to avoid them. They're always so effusive, so grateful to Laura for the gift that saved Erica from her tremors. Now Erica's the belle of San Francisco's society balls and set to make a prestigious match with Admiral Boyd, who made his name and his career with his heroic efforts to stave off the fires six years ago. Derek can't help feeling relieved, watching Erica turn doting eyes on her fiance, that she's finally moved on from her quest to seduce Derek and sink her own teeth into the Hale line.

Priska rubs her cheek against Derek's jaw and wraps herself around his collar. It's unfashionable for men to wear their daemons as Derek does Priska these days, but they both need the reassurance of proximity and touch. The times when they separated, Priska curling up in Derek's bed in protest as he lay in bed with Kate in the Argent home across the street, aren't so far in the past.

Caught up in reverie as he is, the black jaguar alighting the central stair seems like a figment of Derek's imagination until Priska's breath hitches. _Honore,_ she hisses.

No, it can't be Honore. It can't. Kate's daemon is dead with her, and—

The young woman in front of her turns halts at the bend in the stair, and all Derek can do is look at her, take in the long column of her body in her pale gown, the steel in her spine flowing up into her long, aristocratic neck. She wears her brown hair massed around her head like a crown. There's nothing of Kate in her sharp, curious face.

"Well, well, that's little Allison Argent, all grown up," Erica says, turning her head. "Isn't it funny what swans we've all turned out to be?"

* * *

"May I be excused?" Derek says as the lights rise for the first intermission. 

Laura's seated at the front of their box, Cora beside her and Derek behind them, so she has to twist in her chair to look Derek in the face. "Will you behave yourself?"

 _Are you so eager to draw first blood?_ Cora's Audo hisses at Priska. 

Derek ignores Priska's squealed rebuttal. "I want to talk to Scott."

"As I said," Laura says, "Will you behave yourself?"

* * *

As Derek suspected, Scott is downstairs in the box office; Deaton's grooming him to manage the place. "Mr. Hale," he says stiffly, and then, "Derek," when he sees that Derek's alone. "Greenberg, do you mind—"

"On it," the freckle-faced kid next to him says, shifting over to the main seat in the window. 

Scott leads them to an empty office down the hall from the coat check, leaving Mella in the hall to stand guard. "In here." Gingerly, Derek perches on the closest desk, which holds a typewriter and teeming sorting tray for mail. The place smells like Malia; she must be working here, too. "What do you think of the show?"

"What?" Derek says, then, "Oh, it's—it's fine."

"Fine, huh?" Scott says. He raises an eyebrow. "What's the problem?"

"Your whole pack is here," Derek says. "You don’t think that’s dangerous?"

Scott shrugs. "So's yours."

"If you'd just—" Priska digs her claws into his neck; Derek grits his teeth. "This would all be easier if—"

"Hey, I don't see Laura down here with us." Scott folds his arms and leans back against the filing cabinet opposite Derek. "If she has something to say to me, she can come say it. Or send Witch Blake to talk with Stiles, if you want to be formal, which I don't."

Two years ago, a rogue alpha roamed the streets of San Francisco for ten days before Laura and Peter caught him and put him down. He left behind two betas, Scott and Isaac, vulnerable and newly-turned. Up until this summer, Isaac was part of the Hale pack, and Scott—Derek always thought they'd win him over.

But Scott was never going to be a beta in anybody's pack.

"We'll be in touch about the Argents," Derek says eventually.

Scott nods. "I'll let you know if we hear anything."

* * *

Derek slides back into the Hale box just as Rigoletto returns home to his daughter Gilda. Cora is wrapped up in the music, Audo curled in her lap—they’re too young to remember the first time Tetrazzini headlined _Rigoletto_ at the old Tivoli—and Laura has her opera glasses trained on the stage, but Rafe is watching Derek and Priska carefully as they take their seat at the rear next to Peter’s empty one.

 _Scott’s an idiot,_ Priska says as she leaps down to Derek’s lap. Derek strokes her back lightly, fingers glancing along her soft coat. _What does he think is going to happen? He’s going to pluck that little Argent girl from her eyrie and—_

"Priska," Derek says. Audo climbs up on Cora’s shoulder and gives him a baleful stare.

Priska sniffs, then twists onto her back and opens her mouth, baring her tiny, sharp teeth. _They eat our kind._

* * *

After the performance, they linger in the lobby, Laura deep in conversation with Senator Harris, Cora’s dark head bent toward Erica’s bright one as they dress down the Duke and Rigoletto, and Derek and Boyd in silent companionship, watching. There’s no sign of McCall’s pack: the box office is closed, the press has moved onto the performers, and the girls have vanished from the crowd along with Miss Argent and her chaperone Witch Martin. Deaton, too, is absent, although his sister and Mrs. Deucalion are still here.

"Well, that’s the season opened, then," Mrs. Reyes says when she and her husband comes along to collect Erica. "And what a lovely way to start."

"I couldn’t agree more," says Mayor Reyes, clapping Boyd on the shoulder.


	3. scott

"I can’t believe you didn’t watch the show." Heather hangs her coat on the hook by the door, her spaniel daemon Lukasz darting around her ankles. "My god, _Tetrazzini_."

Malia is sitting on the couch next to the fireplace, one of Isaac’s shirts on her lap, the mending basket at her side, and her coyote Tama at her feet. She smiles at Scott as he takes the chair across from her. "She was incredible."

"Hey, I saw the dress rehearsal," Scott says as Mella darts forward to tussle with Stiles’s daemon Agata. "The show runs for 5 more weeks."

Stiles steps out of the kitchen, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. "Danielle says she’s wearing $50,000 of jewels. It all looks like paste to me."

Heather rolls her eyes. "You couldn’t tell a diamond from a marble." She darts over to jab Stiles in the side with her finger and he retaliates by snapping the towel at her, which makes her squeal and dive over the back of the couch as Malia flinches away.

"Hey." Scott keeps his voice low, neutral. "Let’s not wake up Ma."

"Sorry," Heather says, letting herself tumble the rest of the way to the floor. She and Stiles are cousins raised like siblings in Beacon Hills, the mining town that they left for San Francisco two years ago. Watching them together used to make Scott envy their closeness, but now he feels only contentment.

Well, contentment and a little irritation. "Malia, are you all right?" Scott reaches out to touch her knee.

Malia looks up; her eyes flash blue. "I’m fine," she says as she stretches out a hand to Heather, even as Tama cowers under the couch. "I can protect myself."

* * *

The four of them live together in this apartment with Ma on 24th Street, just east of Valencia. The girls sleep in with her, their broad bed separated by a narrow stretch of floorboards from Ma’s smaller one, and Stiles and Scott take the other room. When Isaac has a day off from Witch Martin’s service, he takes the couch. Their little den in the valley of the Mission District is far from the opulent splendor of the Hale House up on Russian Hill, but even full to the eaves, it fits just right. Scott wakes up to Agata knocking over the alarm clock on their bedside table while Stiles groans about the early hour and his personal grievances toward Finstock, the _San Francisco Call_ , and the sun; Scott falls asleep with his head on Stiles’s shoulder and his arm around Stiles’s waist, lulled to sleep by the steady, deep breathing of his pack, the contented rumbles of Mella and Agata, and the familiar beat of Stiles’s heart.

Scott wants all of this, always, forever, and more: for Ma to have her own bedroom, for Isaac and Heather to court if they want, for Malia and Tama to be able to sleep even without the comfort of packmates. That’s why Scott’s an alpha now, according to Stiles. Not because of what happened with Malia’s father, or that mountain ash line—that’s just the icing on the cake. To be a true alpha, you can’t only want to save someone. You have to want more than that. Be more.

"I know what _you_ want," Scott said then, fingers drifting lazily over Stiles’s belly, following the trail of fine hair beneath the sheets. "You want me in you again."

Stiles fluttered his eyelashes. "Do me, alpha. Talk dirty to me, just like—agh!"

Scott tickled Stiles until he was flushed and squirming against the mattress, and then Scott held him down and fucked him, slow and steady, until Stiles came again, sobbing into his arm as he rutted against the mattress. Then Mella and Agata crawled onto the bed with them, curling so close that Agata’s soft fur prickled against Scott’s chest, that Scott felt the broad brush of Mella’s tail over Stiles’s chest on his own.

* * *

Mella bounds down the stairs to the basement while Scott hangs his coat and hat in the upstairs office and helps Malia sort the opera house’s mail. _Witch Martin was here,_ Mella chitters when she doubles back, butting her head against his thigh. _I smell her everywhere, she smells like ink._

"The whole office smells like ink," Malia says under her breath."I don’t know how you can tell."

Scott clears his throat. He’s mostly used to it now, the way Malia talks directly to the pack daemons, but it always takes him by surprise when it happens outside the security of their home. "You’ll meet one of them sometimes, one of the witches, then you’ll know it. They were here last night, but I didn’t want—"

Malia smiles and the nail on her pinky lengthens into a claw, just the right length to slash open the envelope in her hand. "You don’t want me to draw their attention."

"No," Scott says firmly.

In the light of day, Malia looks like any other girl typist in the city; neatly coiffed hair, modest dress, ink-stained fingers. This job is as safe and as close as Scott can keep her. For someone who spent eight years in the wild, she has exceptional spelling. "Go on," she says. "Don’t keep him waiting on my account."

Beneath the desk, Tama purrs, a low rumble in his chest; Mella darts forward to buss him on the nose before she scampers off toward the stairwell again.

* * *

Deaton’s office doesn’t just smell like witch magic; it _reeks_ , like the carpet’s been soaked in India ink and someone’s rose perfume. Scott tries to breathe through his mouth after he closes the door behind him and Mella. "You saw Witch Martin last night. Did she ask for me?"

Deaton hums. "Lydia? Why should she?"

"Doc," Scott says. "You were the one who told me to—who helped Isaac—"

"Trying to control a witch is like trying to control the weather," Deaton says. "You can harness the wind, but it will still blow."

"I don’t know what that means," Scott says.

"I have the accounts from last night, Scott." Deaton gestures to the book open on his desk. "Let’s settle them first."


	4. laura

"You’ve made the papers again," Peter says when Laura comes down for breakfast. She’s alone while Rafe runs the perimeter; Peter’s black mamba Clara is curled around the bowl of fruit. "I suppose I should congratulate you."

The table is set for two in the dining room. Derek and Cora will sleep in after their late night, but Laura and Peter are early risers, up at dawn every day. Today is Thursday, and the world doesn’t stop for the opera. Laura takes her seat opposite from him, then the paper. "Is this from last night? McCall’s boy must have run to the presses."

Peter sighs. "He’s _always_ running."

Laura doesn’t deign to comment as she flips past the front page spread on Tetrazzini toward the column written by Danielle Armstrong, the notorious gossip hound. While Laura is hardly one of those women who aspires to have her name in print only at birth, marriage, and death, she still prefers to keep out of society pages that Erica haunts. But sure enough, she’s there, clustered amongst the other pillars of San Francisco society: Mayor Reyes, Senator Harris, and of course Witches Morrell and Martin. The only ones who warrant a photo are Erica and Admiral Boyd, whose engagement was announced in the same column last week, and of course the "extraordinarily beautiful" Miss Allison Argent, "heir to the vast Argent fortune and recently returned from her education in France to grace American soil."

"God, how can you stand to read this tripe?" Laura says, setting the paper aside to pour herself a cup of coffee from the carafe. "This is worse than the financial section."

"The financial section is so dry," Peter says. "Besides, it’s good to keep up with the community, as you should know."

Laura rolls her eyes. "I have you and Erica for that. Did you hear from Senator McCall yet?"

"What about?" Peter butters a roll, his face all innocence, as Clara relinquishes her hold on the fruit bowl and slithers told him.

"Don’t be coy," Laura says. "We’ll need all the leverage we can find when Victoria Argent gets involved."

* * *

Jennifer Blake meets Laura in the library at nine, their usual daily appointment. She’s the primmest witch Laura’s ever met, always covered from throat to ankle, her scarred face veiled; she’s also the most forthright emissary Laura’s encountered. After Deaton left the pack’s service in the wake of the fire, it took Laura a full year to find a replacement. Jennifer came to them from Los Angeles with a steamer trunk and wounds as raw as Laura’s own. She settled in easily with them among the ashes.

"I’m meeting Lydia for dinner at the new Palace," Jennifer says without preamble. "She sent me a message this morning, asked me to meet."

Laura is lounging on the sofa beneath the tall window overlooking North Beach, one hand buried in the soft fur at the nape of Rafe’s neck. "Lydia’s quite taken Miss Argent under her wing, and Scott, too." 

"I can’t imagine what she wants with them." Jennifer sits down in the chair opposed, her falcon Julius settling onto her shoulder. "Scott’s hardly an asset."

"Maybe she thinks they’re dolls," Laura says, too lightly. "Get them to kiss, we’ll all make up."

Just the thought of it makes her feel ill, remembering the hot spill of Kate’s blood on her hands, her Derek’s horror as he smelled her perfume laced with the nothing scent of mountain ash on their charred doorstep. There’s no marriage to be had between wolves and hunters, no peace to be made between people who are more than human and the murderers who think they’re less. Whatever Lydia’s playing at, she’s a fool if she thinks she can fix this, can win where Laura failed. Scott doesn’t want to be anyone’s pawn, and Miss Argent, however young and innocent she may seem, is an arrow notched in her family’s bow.

Jennifer shakes her head. "Lydia’s more canny than that."

"You’ve know her longer than I have," Laura admits. That’s the way of witches; Morrell’s the youngest she’s ever met. Jennifer has at least a century on Laura, and Lydia even longer.

There’s a strange twist to Jennifer’s smile, half-hidden beneath her veil. "You could say we have a history."


	5. allison

Mother has breakfast laid out in the conservatory every morning at precisely eight o’clock. Usually Father is already on his way to the office, but sometimes he and Benoite join them. Allison isn’t sure whether she likes those mornings better or worst. Conversation is even more strained, but at least she has him for company.

Today, Mother frowns at Allison before she even sits down at the table, adjusting the skirt of her fine lawn dress so it doesn’t crumple beneath her. "We need to get you a maid," Mother says. "Your hair is a mess."

Allison lifts a hand to touch the neat bun on the back of her head, self-conscious. She had her own maid in Paris, Jeanette, whose orangutan liked to groom Pascal while Jeanette helped Allison dress. Since she got to San Francisco, Allison’s had to borrow Nancy, Mother’s maid, who is as reserved as her hare daemon; Allison waved her off and did for herself this morning while Pascal lounged on her spacious window seat. It was pleasant to loosen her nightly braid and brush out her hair over her shoulder in long strokes like she does every evening. "I think it looks fine."

Mother sighs. Beside her, Sacha gives a showy yawn, tousling his mane and exposing a mouthful of fang.

Pascal purrs, lips drawing back to reveal his own teeth. "The opera was lovely," Allison says, ignoring their daemons, as the maid comes out with the breakfast dishes. "Lydia introduced me to a lot of people—"

"She did, did she," Mother says.

Allison picks up her fork. "Mother," she says mildly. "What did you expect her to do?"

Silence descends.

* * *

When Father and Allison left for Paris, Mother stayed behind. "Someone has to look after the business here," Father explained, Benoite standing tall at his side; Mother and Sacha had already retreated to their room in the rented house on Haight. "Grandfather can hardly leave New York, in his health. We won’t be gone too long."

Allison leaned back against the couch, tugging Pascal closer under her arm; the velvet upholstery prickled the back of her neck. Everything here was wrong, too sharp or too soft, and the wool of her mourning dresses constantly itched. They were all she had to wear aside from the three dresses she’d taken with her from the house that morning, and those were all delicate, pale prints, edged with lace, nothing like the unrelieved black of these dresses with barely a flounce for trim. "All right, Father," Allison said. She didn’t want to stay here in the scorched ruins of the city, where there was no school and no home and no Grandmother or Aunt Kate.

Mother came to see them off at the station, in her smart black suit and matching hat. She didn’t wave as the train pulled away.

* * *

Lydia comes by to review Allison’s invitations at lunch. "Harris—no. Powell—no. Reyes—yes. Yukimura—maybe."

They’re in the less formal parlor, and Allison’s taken the silk-upholstered chaise, half-reclining. She didn’t get much sleep last night—if only she could get away with a nap. "I know Erica Reyes," she says. "Or—I used to. Her mother was always having us over for tea. Is she still at home?"

Lydia begins to pen Allison’s replies. "Only just. She’s to be married to Admiral Boyd in May—you’ll want an invitation to _that_."

Pascal pushes his head against Allison’s hip. When she frowns at him, he twists his lips into an annoyed snarl before he rubs his nose against her fingers. _I remember her daemon_ , he says after a moment. _He would never settle for more than a few minutes. Restless._

"Not like you," Allison says to him quietly. 

When they were young, Pascal flitted between a few forms, but he settled for good into his favorite after the fire—a jaguar like Honore, Kate’s daemon. Daemons don’t leave a body to bury, only dust; it drifted gold in Kate’s blood, after.

Pascal laps at Allison’s fingertips, his tongue warm, wet. "Don't," she says, twisting to get to the pocket where she has a handkerchief.

"Lunch with Mrs. and Miss Reyes on Saturday," Lydia says. "Church on Sunday. Tomorrow—I'll give you the day off."

Allison wipes off her fingers. "Is this a job?"

Lydia laughs. She holds up the three invitations she’s responded to, and Lear swoops in and takes them from her hand. "Find me when you’re done," Lydia says to him.

* * *

They sit down to dinner in the formal dining room every night, Mother and Father at either end of the table and Allison in the middle. When Allison was growing up, their table was never so empty. Grandmother Argent lived with them; Aunt Kate and Grandmother Mercy visited often, too. But the earth shook, and the fire burned, and Grandmother Mercy slipped away quietly while Allison and Father were abroad. It seems to Allison that their ghosts sit here now, although it was Grandfather Argent's death that summoned Allison and Father home.

In the morning, Allison can usually summon up an appetite, but at night it's a struggle to do more than pick at the rich food before her. She's delicately sipping soup from her spoon, Pascal dozing at her feet, when Mother says, "So, Lydia's taken it upon herself to manage your social schedule for the season?"

"She's very kind," Allison says diplomatically. She doesn't ask—she hasn't asked—why Mother isn't the one introducing her to polite society, why her name alone is on the invitations that the maid brought in on a salver this morning. Lydia showed up on a broom the day after Allison and Father arrived in San Francisco, fussed over Allison's wardrobe, and declared her intent to turn Allison into the belle of San Francisco society. She didn't exactly wait for permission.

At the other end of the table, Father nods. "Lydia has been a friend of our family for a long time," he says. "We owe her a great deal."

"More than I care for," Mother says, shooting a barbed glance at Father.

Father returns her steely look. "No one is more capable of helping Allison establish herself here than Witch Martin."

Mother arches a brow and takes a pointed sip of wine.

"I like her," Allison says after a minute has passed. "She does seem to know everyone."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Mother says grimly.


	6. kira

Yukimura Kira lives in a small apartment with her parents in Nihonmachi above the bookstore her father owns and operates. The building is new, like the bookstore; the old one on Grant Street and all the books in it burned. Some older volumes are starting to trickle into the store now, some vanilla-sweet with aging paper, others dark with ash. _They make my nose itch,_ says Satoshi, nosing his way through the box of books that Kira is sorting and shelving. _This one smells like cucumber. Are you hungry?_

"No," Kira says. "Go smell something else, if it bothers you so much."

Satoshi huffs and leaps down from the box, his tail a red flume trailing behind him. Daemons don’t need to eat, but Satoshi is constantly chewing on things as disparate as daikon and discarded paper. Sometimes he claims he reads with his mouth.

That’s silly, of course, because they learned when they were three—Japanese, at Mother’s knee—and again at six, English from the teachers at school. Kira’s English is crisp and unaccented, and she speaks it in public, never at home, while Satoshi switches at will, sometimes in the same sentence. They both think in a mix, words as jumbled and savory as a bowl of shina soba, and in private, they both slip between, create new words between them.

* * *

Stiles turns up at lunch time with a paper bag full of buns from one of the Chinese bakeries on Jackson Street; he makes good enough time that they're still warm when he arrives. Kira shuts the front door and they spread out their feast over the plain pine counter while Father goes upstairs to sit down to a proper meal with Mother. "I got red bean," Stiles says. "Pork, too, and there's some egg custard—"

 _Custard_ , Satochi sighs, scrambling up next to them. 

The red bean paste is sticky and even sweeter than the yeasty dough of the bun. Kira has one, then another, and shares the last with Satochi and Agata, who doze on each other after they've glutted themselves. "I wish I could take a nap right now," Stiles says, eyeing their daemons enviously.

Kira muffles a yawn with her hand. "Me, too." She gives the empty wrappers strewn across the counter a regretful look; now that she's a streetcar ride away from Chinatown, she doesn't get to indulge on the treats she loves as often. "What brings you out here, anyway? No camera?"

Stiles says, "Afternoon off." Agata twitches in her sleep.

"Try again," Kira says.

"Okay, fine." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Scott's—you know Scott would never ask you—"

Kira folds her arms on the counter and smiles at him. "No, I know. Scott's a perfect gentleman. You aren't."

"Nope," Stiles agrees. "You want to help me or not?"

Satochi rolls onto his back and burps.

* * *

Just as Kira is getting ready to close the shop for the night, the bell over the door jingles, a bright sound in the quiet room. Satoshi jumps down from the shelf over the counter and lands on his belly, feet splayed, tail jostling the postcard display. _Her, it’s her._

Kira bristles, tamping down the lightening that runs in her veins with years of practice. She’s been expecting Witch Martin all day, ever since her daemon soared through the open doorway over a customer’s head, Miss Argent’s RSVP gripped in his talons. Satoshi, startled, hid under the counter; Kira didn’t have that luxury. Of course, the way Witch Martin was parading Miss Argent around like a prize calf at market, Kira should have know she’d be screening Miss Argent’s mail, too—Miss Argent will be lucky if she can pencil in her own dance card.

Lydia is wearing a thin whisp of black chiffon, a suggestion of gauze on her shoulders that tapers into an opaque column just before she’d be arrested for indecency. At her side, Lear flutters for a moment before retreating to the highest stack of books by the door, the bargain pile that Father lets go for five cents apiece. "Miss Yukimura," she says, voice tinkling like the bell that announced. "Is your mother at home?"


	7. isaac

Isaac gets Fridays off. He doesn't know what Witch Martin does on Fridays, and he doesn't really want to ask. There's a tacit agreement between her staff—the maid, the housekeeper, and Isaac, who doubles as man-about-the-house and chauffeur—not to peer too closely at Witch Martin's schedule or habits. Instead, they dissect practical matters: does the front parlor need to be aired more often in deference to werewolf noses? will Witch Martin be eating more at home or away this season?

This morning, the only person at the McCall apartment is Heather, who's lying on the couch and paging through yesterday's issue of the _Call_ with inky fingers and a frown, Lukasz is curled up in her lap, sound asleep. "Hey, you," Heather says. "There's coffee and biscuits in the kitchen if you're hungry."

Varda wiggles in Isaac's pocket. "Late start today," Isaac says, pausing at the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. "Did you get the day off, too?"

Heather sighs and nods. "I don't know if they're going to keep me on for the show. The opera company has their own dressers, and there's hardly any work for me."

There's enough money between all of them that they won't hurt for the loss of Heather's wages, but Scott wants to be able to save for a house of their own, and that's only possible if they all work. "Something will turn up," Isaac says. "There are other theatres, and now you've got experience—"

"Right," Heather says, but she doesn't sound so sure.

Isaac gets out her favorite mug—the chipped one from home—and one of the silly mustache cups that Melissa got him and Scott last Christmas. His mustache is hardly equal to Scott's carefully styled handlebar, but Isaac has used his mug regularly ever since, delicately painted pink roses and all. He fills his and Heather's mugs, adding milk and sugar to hers, while Varda happily sniffs the coffee grounds. Something about the bite has shifted her, too; her hamster nose is more sensitive to smells, her palate more delicate. "Good?" Isaac says, helping her down to the floor when she's had her fill of the scent. She chitters and presses her damp nose to his palm before running off to the living room.

Varda doesn't talk much, but that started well before the bite.

* * *

Heather reads for the rest of the morning, and Isaac knits in the chair by the fireplace; he's been making socks for all of them, churning out one pair after another, since Melissa taught him last year. Between them, Lukasz and Varda tussle and play on the floor, Varda hiding in tinier and tinier spaces, egging Lukasz into chasing her. Isaac's not sure if he and Heather are courting. They're the two odd ends of the pack: it seems like they should tie easily into a neat bow, binding the Stilinskis and McCalls together in a circle around Malia. In practice, it's more complicated.

In the afternoon, the pack starts to trickle in. Melissa is the first to return from work, white nurse's cap still perched jauntily on her head. When Heather points it out, all Melissa can do is laugh. "I never get away from it," she says, folding it carefully and stowing it in her bag while her tabby Tomas sprawls out on the floor and yawns. "I come home from work and then there's you all—"

"I'll make dinner." Heather scrambles to her feet. "Why don't you rest? Get off your feet."

"Oh, you don't have to—" Melissa says, but she does as Heather suggests, taking up her own knitting from the basket by Isaac first. Lukasz and Varda stop their play to cuddle up with Tomas on the couch next to her. A sense of deep contentment washes over Isaac as he feels them through Varda, Melissa and Heather and their daemons, and above that there's the familiar scents of the home, and the sounds; Melissa's steady breaths, the clicking of their knitting needles, and Heather peeling potatoes in the kitchen. 

Isaac is still afraid to want this so badly, to need it, even though he has supernatural might to guard himself, his home, and his family in it. Sometimes he's glad he only has one day to spend here, to soak up the tenderness and warmth that digs more deeply into his soul than tooth or claw ever will.


	8. derek

Derek spends a blissfully uneventful Friday morning lost in Kipling. He graduated from Stanford last spring and he's been at loose ends since then. Peter's not particularly interested in handing over the reins to the family business, and they have enough money for Derek to remain indolent for the rest of his days as long as he doesn't take up gambling on a corporate scale for a hobby. That's fine for now, but Priska's getting frustrated. Unlike Derek, _she's_ not content to hole up in the library forever.

"I'm bored," Cora says as she steps into the room. "I want to go to the beach."

Derek sighs, taking in Cora's smart suit, her matching parasol. "The weather out there's so terrible, I don't know why you bother," he tries.

Cora folds her arms; Audo, at her feet, hisses. "Caitlin's mother said we can go to Playland if you come."

"It's Friday, there will be a crush," Derek says, but he's already placing a marker into _Kim_ despite Priska's grumbling. _We can't all have what we want_ , she mutters in Derek's ear, but she squirms against his collar. She's restless, too.

* * *

Derek drives the girls out to Playland himself. The Daimler is his baby, and it's not like he has the opportunity to take her out all that often in the city, which is choked with cable cars and trolleys on top of the perilous inclines. Getting out of Russian Hill requires some careful navigation, but the roads clear and the terrain steadies as Derek passes through Western Addition and enters the Richmond District. He's starting to enjoy himself now, too, the wind whipping past his face and tickling Priska's fur, with Cora and Caitlin giggling in the back as they hang onto their hats.

Playland is, predictably, packed. Derek has his hands full trying to keep up with Cora and Caitlin, whose Monarch butterfly flutters around her head like a wayward hair ornament. They finally manage to lose Derek at the Ferris wheel, sliding behind the gate just as the keeper shuts it. "Go have fun!" Cora shouts at him. "I'll meet you at the Mystic Maze in an hour!"

"You don't have a watch!" Derek shouts back, but they're already climbing into the last car, letting the assistant help them into the swaying compartment.

Sure, Cora's a werewolf—she's physically capable of protecting both herself and Caitlin if need be—but she's still a sheltered kid who's bloomed despite her hothouse environment. She's young, beautiful, naive, and Derek knows how _that_ goes. His anxiety clenches around his lungs like a vise as the wheel begins to move and Cora and Caitlin rise out of view.

They're kids, though. They're supposed to be doing stuff like this—sneaking off, ditching their chaperones, stuff that Derek and Laura before him did innocently enough in the years before the fire. Mother was tolerant; their greatest punishment was Peter's mockery when he inevitably caught them.

Derek's not Peter.

* * *

He waits by the Mystery Maze for the better part of an hour before he gives in and pays the nickel to enter. The entry is covered by three sets of thick, dark curtains that provide a gradual descent into the pitch-black underworld. When Derek passes through a second series of curtains, the light that awaits him is dim but still disconcerting. There are mirrors everywhere, shifting and distorting Derek's image, reflecting back into each other a recursive series of lights and frame. The only way Derek can discern the path forward is by staring at his feet, catching a glimpse of another wanderer ahead of him vanishing into the distance.

The Mystery Maze didn't seem all that large from the outside, but the further Derek ventures in, the longer the path before him seems to stretch on. The end of the first corridor is abrupt; he's forced to turn left, to ascend a narrow, unlit set of stairs. _We can turn around_ , Priska says, pawing at his shoulder. _We don't have to go up there._

"Are you afraid?" Derek says softly.

Priska is silent.

Derek ascends the stairs cautiously, one step at a time. He wonders how humans can manage this place with their sight so diminished in the dark. Even Derek must rely on his other senses to guide him, taking in the sweat and dirt of past crowds and the acrid scent of the kerosene lamps, the rough wood of the stairwell's walls, the sound of footfalls overhead. Two sets: could be someone and their daemon, could be friends, strangers, lovers.

As Derek places his foot on the final step, the mirrors on this level finally come into full view, and he sees it, magnified, reflected, looming enormous about him. 

A black jaguar.


	9. allison

Allison places her hand on the cool glass of the mirror next to her, tries to calm her heaving breaths. She's just disoriented; there's no danger.

 _I told you this was a terrible idea_ , Pascal says, even as he noses her hand, presses his head against her thigh in reassurance. Allison cups his jaw with her fingers and scratches his throat, calming, centering both of them. _We should have stayed at home._

"You'd just complain about being trapped in a cage," Allison says. Then she giggles. God, she's come halfway across the globe, and this is where she's losing it—not at home, not at the opera, not in another one of those interminable dress fittings, but lost in a mirror maze on some cheap midway that overlooks the cold and dreary Pacific. Sneaking out of the house and taking the streetcar out is the first taste of adventure that Allison's had since she left Paris. She was giddy with it, intoxicated, right up until, well… now.

There's no one in here, at least not that Allison has seen since she entered. Maybe she'll be trapped in this labyrinth until closing time. Surely the workers clean at night. Surely someone will find them. 

She presses her gloved fist to her mouth.

 _I'll go look for someone,_ Pascal says.

"Don't go far," Allison says, even though she knows he can't stray—the tether between them will always draw him back to her, the gravity of dust maintaining their orbit.

Pascal glimmers in the mirrors around them for a long moment, a hundred jaguars massed like an army, before he slinks forward and diminishes into the shadows.

* * *

"Miss?" someone says above her. Allison doesn't remember sitting down. "Are you all right?"

"I—" Pascal nudges her side, a hot press to her hip. "I'm not sure," Allison says. She lets her rescuer help her up, taking her gloved hand in his bare ones. He has broad palms, a strong grip. She can't quite make out his face in the shadows, so her impression of him is all bulk and strength, broad shoulders and slim hips reflected back at her at a dozen angles. Her breath catches in her throat.

"Let's go back down," he says, not letting go of her hand.

The route downstairs is twisted and sharply pitched; Allison can see how she and Pascal got lost, now, missing high steps and abrupt turns. She doesn't know how her rescuer can tell where he's going. Maybe he has a daemon who can see better than he can. "Thank you," she says when they reach the long thrust of the initial hall, the series of curtains. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't—"

Her rescuer pushes back the last curtain. "It's nothing."

In the bright light of day, Allison knows him: knows that dark hair combed back from his widow's peak, his gently downturned mouth, the daemon peeking her head out of his vest. "You're Derek Hale," she says.

Mr. Hale gives her an inscrutable look. "I am," he says. "Where's your party?"

* * *

The whole thing is very thrilling right up until Cora Hale and her friend Caitlin join them at the maze's exit. "You should all be grounded." Derek glares at each of them in turn. "Didn't your mothers teach you better than this?"

Cora's younger than Allison remembered, her sharp Hale face softened by lingering baby roundness. "No," she says, glaring right back while Caitlin shrinks behind her. "You never let me have any fun, not even—"

"Oh, _I_ never let you have any fun," Derek says mildly.

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you," Alison says, unsure whether she's more embarrassed to be lumped in with these wayward girls or to have been caught out in the first place. She doesn't want to be some weak damsel, dependent on her prince to save the day, waiting on her St. George or Prince Charming. Pascal gives a knowing growl at her side, and she glances down at him and the bared teeth of his smile.

"Don't listen to my brother," Cora says. "He's stuffy and boring. Let's get something to eat, there's a fairy floss stand up ahead."

Next to his sister, Derek's austere remove is forgotten; his face has gone from shuttered to familiar, impatience warring with fondness. "No, we're going home before you get into more trouble. _Any_ of you."

"Please don't tell my father," Caitlin says. "He—"

Derek sighs. "Fine, and you won't tell him that I _lost_ you. Cora—"

Cora huffs. Her daemon starts grooming his tail.

"Miss Argent, you're certainly old enough to—" Derek pauses, like he's not quite sure why he's chastising her. "To—"

"Know better than to wander around the city on my own?" Allison suggests. "To enter amusements unchaperoned? To mingle with questionable company? Such peril."

Derek gives her a long, searching look. Outside, under the cloudy, grey skies, they're all propriety again; the intimacy of the moment in the dark when he came to Allison's rescue seems dreamlike, impossible. She flushes as he remembers the way he drew her up from the floor, pulling her out from under the sway of the mirrors and fragmented light. "What peril, indeed," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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